


Every Apple Does Get Bitten Eventually

by Eariel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale is not so good at music, Crowley is a musician, Crowley is such a drama queen, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I'm sorry I know you're cool, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, but he's not bad either, no beta!, whatever it is they will get a happy ending, you know how they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eariel/pseuds/Eariel
Summary: Apocalypse didn't happen, and Aziraphale wants to express his gratitude to all the people who were trying to prevent it. And what's the best way to show your feelings? Music, of course!Even more so, given that he knows one demon who used to be a part of a musical ensemle ("A band, Aziraphale, it was a band!")





	1. That. Oblivious. Bastard.

For five hours straight, legions of raindrops had been knocking on the tall windows of his flat, as if asking for permission to enter, when Crowley finally opened the curtains, wondering whether it was still London outside. Well, it looked more like Venice, indeed. A very cold Venice, though. November kind of Venice, probably. Not the ideal August weather in London, anyway.

Crowley was neither surprised, nor disappointed. It would take quite a naïve person to actually hope for the spotless sky on the very last days of summer, and he definitely was not naïve at all for at least two reasons. First, he had been hanging out on Earth for about 6000 years, measured by human standards, which meant he had quite a decent grasp of how things actually worked. Second, he was a demon, so healthy skepticism was one of the major professional requirements.

Besides, the recent changes in his life guaranteed that all the outdoor pursuits of the foreseeable future would only take place if he himself wanted them to, so the weather could not become an upsetting factor, anyway. Being fired from Hell had its advantages. In fact, the only disadvantage was the inevitable fight for survival against all of his ex-colleagues, but he had already won that war for now and was immensely proud of himself. It felt like the first real holiday in his prolonged lifetime, when no other being could tell him what to do or somehow interfere with his plans.

Well, _almost_ no other being. Through the countless streams of water running down the window, he suddenly noticed a spot of beige moving towards his house. The lonely figure with a huge tartan umbrella seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the stroll – Crowley could say it for sure, even though he did not see Aziraphale’s face clearly.

Crowley put his sunglasses on and grinned at the sudden feeling of interest, warmth and _that-which-shall-not-be-named_. He did not mind this particular kind of interference. The day promised not to be dull, after all.

***  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Aziraphale was in Crowley’s kitchen, sipping steaming tea and giving broad smiles to the hot mug and to Crowley himself. His hair was even more curly than usual, as it was still slightly wet – just like his suit. A being of a sunny disposition, he did not seem to be bothered at all. Unlike Crowley, who (though he was not going to admit it) was slightly worried.

“Why don’t you just make your clothes dry? “ Crowley frowned.

“Well, my dear friend, any tea ceremony gets even more pleasant when it’s pouring outside, and you have found a nice and warm shelter, but still remember what it felt like to be in the rain,” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley.

Crowley raised his eyebrow:

“Like you would forget if you changed, or something.”

“But the experience itself is completely different!” the angel claimed.

Crowley did not see how a huge _tartan_ mug (“What? You don’t have any teacups here, so I conjured it!”) and a three-year-old teabag (“Oh, really, my dear Crowley, we should get you some proper tea!”) were a _tea ceremony_, but he was not going to argue about it. His face, however, must have been expressive enough: the angel closed his eyes for a couple of second, and when he opened them again, nothing would betray that he had got soaked to the skin while getting here. Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley felt the sudden urge to fill the painfully warm and cozy silence with at least something.

“So, why have you decided to pay me a visit?” he asked, but quickly paraphrased not to sound inhospitable towards his guest. “I mean, what could ever get you out of your bookshop on such a day?”

Crowley was, in fact, slightly perplexed, but Aziraphale was in such a jolly mood that he did not even get to think of anything like new Heaven/Hell problems, which would be the only reasonable explanation of the angel’s current presence at his place. Well, he would be pleased to think that Aziraphale was just seeking his company, and he even knew that it was partially true, but there must have been something else as well.

Aziraphale smiled at him:

“There is something I’ve been thinking about for a couple of days… I believe that we might have caused a great number of inconveniences to some people while preventing Apocalypse, so it would be nice… ”

He paused under Crowley’s glare. He knew it too well to be tricked by the sunglasses. He would recognize it even if he could not see the demon’s face at all, and this thought made Aziraphale feel strange contentment.  
“…I thought it would be _de rigeur _if we made our apologi…”

“Apologies?!” Crowley was not going to lose his temper, but he had never actually found it, in the first place, so it was all right. “I don’t know, angel, we were trying to save their world, if you didn’t notice! Isn’t it enough for some mild _inconveniences_?!”

“It’s our world now, too,” Aziraphale simply said. “Besides, I was speaking about those who were actually doing the same thing! This nicest lady, Madam Tracy, she was so kind as to lend me her body, and I am genuinely grateful to her…”

The whole talk seemed just absurd to Crowley, but he had no intention to interrupt Aziraphale this time. It was not his fault that the angel, who was definitely overexcited at his new idea, was looking for words for so long. 

“Listen, angel, you borrowed my body too, and it was not that bad!”

That sounded awkward. Probably, he should have been the one to spend more time choosing his words. “Anyway, the whole situation helped the old woman with her love life, what else do you want?”

Aziraphale was particularly pleased about this part, so he smiled virtuously at the notion, ignoring the first part of the comment.

“Oh, yes, Madam Tracy’s life has definitely changed for the better. But then there is this girl with the book, Anathema.”

Crowley gave him another look that was supposed to remind the angel that their meeting with Anathema had already caused him enough pain in the… car.

“Oh, Crowley, just imagine how hard it must have been for her to be left without her book because of us!”

“What do you mean, ‘us’?” Not that he did not like the wording, but being involved in the whole gratitude business did not sound that appealing at all. “I’m not the one fond of reading here, but if it’s all about this book stuff, just give her one from your collection and consider your gratitude expressed. Or do some blessings and relax.”

Aziraphale looked at him, slightly irritated because he had to explain his brilliant idea and how exactly his brilliant idea was brilliant.

“Crowley,” he sighed, “what is the best way to express your feelings, what do you think?”

That was an unexpected turn. _“Oh yeah, right, ask me”,_ the demon thought, suppressing his wish to shift from one foot to the other. You’ve got to stay cool, after all.

“How would I know that? It’s not something they teach in Hell, is it?”

Aziraphale brightened, just like a student who knew the right answer to the teacher’s question. That was a bit unfair, given that he had asked the question himself.

“It is music, my dear friend! Of course, it’s music!” he exclaimed. “And I thought we could compose something truly beautiful for all those people to enjoy!” – Finally having his idea verbalized, the angel returned to his tea, which had got too cold and too strong by now. Aziraphale screwed up his face, put the mug away and waited for Crowley’s answer.

Now, it was getting interesting. Crowley had always enjoyed good music, and the perspective of doing music with Aziraphale sounded like fun, even though the angel’s conception of “bebop” was not quite up to date. The more fun it promised. He grinned at the angel.

“I never thought you could write music.”

Aziraphale paused. “I would not say I _can _do it…” he drummed his fingers, slightly nervously, “but I know that my demonic friend is very good at music, and I would make a very good student, I guess?” he added with a shy smile.

Crowley’s grin got even broader. “Alright,” he said, “I’m not a fan of your idea in general, but this part sounds fun. Sure you are ready to learn from me, angel?”

***

There are many things one could expect to find under a demon’s bed. Some of them might serve as terrifying reminders of what is awaiting those not following righteous ways. Some could be seen as temptation equipment of various kinds. A perfectly tuned acoustic guitar is hardly one of those things. Aziraphale smiled softly, when Crowley’s fingers unzipped the bag and lovingly patted the reddish wood.

When Crowley finally moved his eyes back to the angel, Aziraphale was absolutely sure that tempting the demon into playing music again was one of his best ideas over the last 6000 years.

“Are you going to stand there forever?” Crowley nodded to the door and then to the bed, inviting the angel to sit next to him. When Aziraphale did so, Crowley started to pick the strings slowly.

“It’s very beautiful,” Aziraphale gasped after some time. It was. Both listening to Crowley’s play and watching him being so meditative and serene were beautiful. “Why did you quit that ensemble of yours back then?”

“A _band_, Aziraphale, it was a _band_,” Crowley corrected him. He considered telling the angel the truth for a moment: “Because at some point it became too difficult to stay underground, and if we had charted, you’d most likely have heard some of my sloppy lyrics on the radio, and then you’d know for sure that I’m madly in love with you, and you wouldn’t know what to do about it for the next several centuries.” He decided against it.

“Nah, we were never good,” he said instead. He never mentioned that before leaving the band he had found them another guitarist, and then, with one or two demonic miracles, helped the guys attract just enough public attention to soon become iconic (they changed the name first). They kept sending him postcards and invitations to all of their shows, and he even visited them, occasionally.

“Such a pity I never heard you!” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sure you were just great!” He had always been extremely appreciative when it came to arts.

“Doubt it. Anyway, what do you want us to do?” Crowley looked at him, hesitating. “I could teach you a couple of chords to begin with,” he suggested somewhat nervously. Somewhat hopefully. He had not had anyone to talk to about music for years.

“That would be just fine!” Aziraphale smiled, all ready to start playing.

They spent several hours in the bedroom, passing the guitar to each other. Aziraphale watched with admiration even the simplest chords Crowley played with ease, and Crowley loved seeing so much feeling in the angel’s eyes. He kept explaining some basic music theory to Aziraphale, who was listening eagerly and was happy to give Crowley the chance to play and to demonstrate how it all worked – his fingers had started to ache by the end of the first thirty minutes of their class.

Crowley turned out to be a very good and observant teacher (“Nah, that’s just for you, angel.” He was not lying). He noticed quickly that his student was struggling with finger positioning, and he was always there to help Aziraphale move his fingers on the frets. The angel would probably be quite distressed, because it was in fact so much more difficult than he had expected, if it were not for Crowley, who was sitting closely behind him, holding the angel’s hands and guiding them through the strings. As for Crowley himself, he was mentally thanking everyone Above and Below, because Aziraphale could not see his face, or read his mind.

Unbearably close.

He moved away from Aziraphale, swallowing drily. He did not see the brief disappointment in his student’s face.

“You’re doing well, angel, let’s stop for today.”

“Oh, Crowley, you’re a magnificent teacher!” Aziraphale exclaimed, putting down the guitar. The tips of his fingers were sore, and now that his back was not pressed against Crowley’s chest, he was too well aware of how chilly the room was.

“Nah,” said Crowley, grabbing the guitar, “Any time.”

He dropped himself on the floor, closed his eyes tiredly and started playing a wistful melody. At some point, another instrument joined the guitar, and Aziraphale watched raindrops in amusement. They drummed against the windows, adding to the music, settling into an intricate rhythm to bring out the demon’s guitar. “Such a beautiful miracle,” Aziraphale thought, “I wish I could do something that beautiful for you.”

When Crowley stopped playing, he opened his eyes and focused on Aziraphale’s soft expression.

“Thank you,” the angel whispered. “That was very beautiful, Crowley.”

The demon nodded, getting on his feet.

“I think I should be going now,” Aziraphale continued, looking at the darkening sky.

“’course you should,” Crowley mumbled slightly irritably.

Aziraphale turned to him, worried. “Are you alright?”

“Yep. Nope. You could stay,” he said before he could stop himself. “It’s raining like hell, anyway,” he added quickly and shook his head shortly, trying to get over his stupid melancholic mood.

“I’d be happy to stay longer, my dear Crowley, but your play inspired me so much that I need to do something in the bookshop before you come there tomorrow morning! Will you?” the angel asked with that shy smile again.

Could he ever say “no”? “Get the guitar, angel. You’ve got to practice. Lift home?” he asked, managing a smile.

“Lift home,” Aziraphale said gratefully, and something warm flooded Crowley’s chest. “But keep the guitar for now, I would not possibly take it away from you! You seem to love it as much as you love your Bentley.”

“Not as much as I love you, though,” Aziraphale thought.

“Oh, _please_, stop torturing me with your four-letter-words,” Crowley thought.

***

“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale said before getting out of the car. “For the lift, for the class, and for the day.”

“Any time, as I told you,” Crowley smirked. He noticed Aziraphale’s hesitation: “What?”

“I think I’ll never learn all these things about music you have told me,” Aziraphale admitted. “I have even forgotten the notes of the open strings already…” the angel sighed.

Crowley watched him softly. “Don’t worry, you just have to remember: ‘Every Apple Does Get Bitten Eventually’.” He laughed at the perplexity that marked Aziraphale’s face. “Mnemonics, you know. For EADGBE. See you tomorrow?”

“Every Apple Does Get Bitten Eventually,” Aziraphale repeated thoughtfully and smiled, “Good night, Crowley.”

That. Oblivious. Bastard.


	2. My Angel

By the moment he opened the door of the bookshop the next morning, Crowley had shoved his soppy feelings as deep as possible, smiling widely at the opportunity to do music with _his friend_. It felt right to do things together. Even averting Apocalypse was not that bad, if he gave it a thought. Even raising Warlock was fun most of the time, though he would never admit it to Aziraphale.

“Morning, angel!”

Aziraphale emerged from the backroom, all smiles. “Come here, Crowley, I’ve got something to show you.” He disappeared again.

The thing he was so enthusiastic about turned out to be a huge box, supposedly filled with books. Aziraphale did not hurry to open it, however, so Crowley perched on the edge of the table, putting the guitar he had brought in the armchair he usually occupied. “So, what’s in the box?”

Aziraphale brightened even further. “I have to admit that I’ve had a sort of lifelong passion…” he started.

“Tell _me_ about that,” Crowley shot. Oh, no, not again. Aziraphale gave him a wary look. That would not do. “I mean, _do_ tell me, I’m genuinely interested. Isn’t it books?”

“Books, yes, but also…” He opened the box that, to Crowley’s surprise, was filled with smaller boxes, and took out a pair of bright black-and-red wooden spoons. “Well, it’s not actually a lifelong passion, more like a recent hobby… Anyway, for about a century, I’ve been collecting unusual musical instruments!”

Spoons. Really.

“I thought you would appreciate my small collection,” the angel continued to ramble, “I do find music fascinating, but I’m not much of a musician myself, as you remember. I think I always lacked patience…” As if to prove it, he played a simple tune with his spoons, eyes shining with contagious happiness.

“I never thought you could surprise me with something like that,” Crowley chuckled, “but why spoons?”

“Oh, it is a gift from a nice man I helped once. They have a traditional Russian ornament, khokhloma, see?” The angel gave Crowley one of the spoons. “This Soviet spy was so eager to defuse the international tension somehow, and he was in a very difficult situation, and I may have used a couple of blessings to help him out. You must have seen him in St James’s Park, he used to enjoy long strolls with his American friend back then.” Aziraphale smiled, “They always reminded me of us, you know. Earthly politics can get quite complicated, too…”

Crowley nodded and sat on the floor, closer to the box. “What else do you have?”

Aziraphale was pleased by the demon’s interest. He started to unpack box after box to show Crowley all the instruments he had and to reminisce about their stories. They definitely were “unusual”, as the angel had announced earlier. Among them were a funny little thumb piano (“How can you improvise so beautifully, Crowley? I’m going to give this kalimba to you!”), a tiny flute and a _pungi_.

“Why on Earth would you have this, angel? Isn’t it used in snake charming?” Crowley widened his eyes.

“Well, what if I wanted to charm an old wily serpent one day?” Aziraphale laughed as he watched Crowley’s eyebrows rise higher and higher. “Do you think it would work on you?”

“Hell yes,” the demon agreed, with as much sarcasm in his voice as he could manage.

“I would not possibly do such a thing to you, though,” Aziraphale said seriously. “Anyway! Here’s the thing I wanted to show you!”

Aziraphale put an exquisite hang drum on his lap. “Your raindrop miracle yesterday was so inspiring that I remembered this lovely drum. Just listen to its sound. I can play it a bit...” The angel started beating his fingers softly against the shining surface of the instrument, his hands moving swiftly around the hang. It did sound like rain, and there was something very light and _heavenly_ about its music. Moreover, Aziraphale seemed to be quite good at playing it. Apparently, the hang for him was the gavotte of musical instruments.

Having got over the stupefying admiration, Crowley grabbed the guitar and joined Aziraphale’s performance.

This is how it started. An angel and a demon were playing music together to thank people for being people.

But mostly because they simply loved doing it with each other.

***

“Rehearsal, angel!”

“Lunch first?”

This conversation became their new ritual. They were now spending most of their time together, improvising, and composing, and trying to perfect what they had already done. It involved numerous recordings, shared jokes, and, on some days, quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol. There were also more meals in Aziraphale’s favourite places in London, and fewer customers in his bookshop: even most avid bibliophiles were having difficulties figuring out the opening hours now.

Aziraphale loved it all. He enjoyed this very special feeling of purpose playing music with Crowley gave him – the feeling he thought he would have lost when the world had been saved. For an angel, receiving instructions from higher authorities is an integral part of life, and even though Aziraphale valued his freedom, at first, he had been ready to feel frustrated or, at least, disoriented. It never actually happened, though. He was finally free to be where he belonged.

He enjoyed other things about doing music as well. He enjoyed spending time with Crowley, and learning from him, and seeing him so enthusiastic and relaxed at the same time. He enjoyed watching the demon’s long fingers doing the impossible with the guitar. He even enjoyed all the little jokes that made both of them feel slightly (extremely, in Crowley’s case) tense. For Aziraphale, though, they were not mere jokes, but a way to prepare both Crowley and himself to what he was going to tell the demon. Sooner or later. One day. Eventually.

The lack of response from Crowley, however, was unexpected, so Aziraphale decided not to force it. Everything was good, anyway. There was just one thing to worry about.

“Crowley, I’ve been thinking,” he started after a particularly successful rehearsal, when both of them were satisfied with their work and the best merlot from Aziraphale’s wine rack. “How are we going to present our music?”

“What do you mean?” the demon asked lazily, sprawling even further in the armchair, which would be quite challenging for anyone who is not at least thirty percent serpent. Aziraphale contemplated him for a couple of moments.

“We’re getting better and better, aren’t we? How can we show our music to people?”

“I’d rather not.” Crowley reconsidered, when he saw Aziraphale pleading eyes. “It was your plan, anyway, so you tell me.”

“Erm… It was, sure, but I did not plan it that thoroughly…” Aziraphale could feel his cheeks blushing, and he did not like it. Crowley’s eyes were now focused on him, which did not help at all. “Crowley, I did not even dare to hope you would agree to do it with me!”

The demon’s eyebrow went up sceptically, and a smile appeared on his face. 

“Okay, I did hope!” Aziraphale admitted, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “But I never planned much further, if you must know,” the angel sighed.

Crowley had definitely grown too soft. In spite of having five sarcastic remarks about poor planning in his head, he couldn’t resist the urge to help the angel. “Let’s record it and upload on youtube,” he suggested. “When we are ready.” He hated to think that he would soon need to create another excuse to spend time with Aziraphale, who did not seem to be content with sharing their music online.

“Probably, it would be easier to convey our gratitude in person…” Aziraphale mumbled.

“What do you want then? A music festival?” Crowley returned to his wine, which he found more inspiring than all these frustrating talks about thanking people. He had not been playing music for others, and he had cherished a frail hope that Aziraphale had not either. But he was not going to let this hope spoil everything and scare the angel away.

To his surprise, Aziraphale brightened, miraculously avoiding spilling his wine in excitement. “Crowley, that’s brilliant! We will perform at a music festival in Lower Tadfield!”

Crowley hated ruining it for the angel, but he suspected that Aziraphale was not very well aware of what music festivals are usually like. Besides, there were no festivals to take place in the vicinity of Tadfield. This part, however, did not bother Aziraphale.

“We will _inspire_ some people in the town council, or whoever could make this decision, to organize a tiny festival, let’s say, at the weekend,” the angel suggested with a cunning smile.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley grinned, watching his friend in disbelief, “by _inspiring _you could not possibly mean _tempting_ some low-rank politicians into doing whatever you want them to do?” He asked slowly, innocence written all over his face.

Aziraphale winked at him. “Oh, I’m just enough of a bastard for that, aren’t I?”

***

A couple of temptations, a handful of blessings, and excessive amounts of preparation – and here they are, watching the second stage being erected in a riverside meadow near Lower Tadfield. Well, Aziraphale is watching, as he has already finished with the food arrangements for the weekend open-air festival. They never expected so many local musicians to volunteer to take part in it, so the event is going to be slightly bigger than they initially planned. This is exactly the reason Crowley is wearing a yellow helmet and giving directions to the team of builders, who are almost finishing with the construction.

Aziraphale is sitting on a soft beige blanket, his back leaning on a tall tree, whose leaves have already turned crimson and amber, and now that it is getting dark, it becomes difficult to spot Crowley in the distance. He can still see his luminescent vest among the builders’ luminescent vests, though.

The angel is tired, and pensive, and deeply satisfied. He thinks about everything they have done over the past month; he thinks about the festival they only had a week to prepare (“Even deadlines in Hell weren’t so tight, angel!”), and he can see only one reason for Crowley to have been going through it all with him. The same reason Crowley saved his life over and over again. The same reason he saved his books back in 1941. The same reason he asked the angel to fly to Alpha Centauri with him.

All these insights make Aziraphale feel jittery, because he does not seem to have any more excuses to postpone the conversation they should have had long ago.

“Ready?”

Aziraphale almost jumped. “W-what? Oh, um, yes, I… Have you finished?” He did not notice that Crowley had got that close and had probably been standing near him for several moments.

“Can’t you tell?” the demon smiled.

Aziraphale looked at the dark-blue stage that was now decorated with some constellation patterns and a huge pair of wings, one black and one white. “It’s charming, Crowley!” Aziraphale smiled softly. The stage was smaller than the one on the other side of the meadow, but it was also stunning.

Crowley smirked at the angel’s reaction. He was still wearing the helmet, his red hair and broad grin making Aziraphale wonder whether the demon had anything to do with Ayn Rand writing Howard Roark.

The angel got up and looked at his friend appreciatively. “Thank you, Crowley. For everything.”

He will say more. Soon. Not now.

***

Twenty hours later the meadow was crowded with people, and lots and lots of tents were hiding behind the tall trees of the wood nearby. It was warm and dry, and the ground was covered with crunchy fallen leaves. Near Tadfield the weather had been perfect for the last eleven years, and this day was not an exception.

People were wondering around, chattering excitedly. The space between the two stages was big enough to explore, and as the majority of visitors were heading to the bigger, red-and-yellow sun-patterned stage, most of them stopped here and there to have a look at motley merchant stalls selling whatever one could imagine. Tiny food outlets and restaurants were especially appealing, offering gourmet meals that were of better quality and taste than food at any other open-air festival. Just a miracle!

“You sure you don’t want to go to the big stage?” Crowley asked Aziraphale, caressing the guitar. Near the starry stage there were not so many people. Among them, however, was everyone Aziraphale had actually had in mind when he initiated the whole thing. He smiled, watching Sergeant Shadwell recruiting Adam and his friends to The Witchfinder Army. None of them seemed to have noticed Aziraphale or Crowley yet.

“I suppose we’ll be fine here,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s just… begin?”

Crowley nodded at his hesitation, “It’ll be fine, angel.”

He went to the stage. Aziraphale followed. So did the attention of their small audience, including all of The Witchfinder Army, which consisted of more than 5 people now (which had not been the case for more than a century, mind you!), some of their parents, an occultist and Madam Tracy, who actually felt like a bit of all three.

“Wanna say anything before we begin?”

“I… Yes,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Our dearest guests,” he began, watching the audience attentively. “thank you for coming here today and for staying with us. We’re actually very grateful for many things some of you may not remember clearly…” he spotted Crowley’s _you’re-not-actually-going-to-remind-everyone-about-Apocalypse-are-you_ expression. Aziraphale smiled softly and continued. “Just think about the time you felt proud to be a human. This is what we want to thank you for.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, which nobody could see behind the sunglasses. They started playing, and it was _miraculously _beautiful (no miracles involved). “You don’t even need to be an angel to feel waves of love rising all around”, Aziraphale thought. He saw those who listened to them, their eyes bright with inspiration and happiness; he could feel their love for everything – their friends and families, their partners, their life… It was magnificent, and Aziraphale could not help smiling. More importantly, it brought out Crowley’s love. He could feel it better than ever before, and it made the angel’s heart go faster.

In no time, their performance was over. It was longer than a typical song, and still, for Crowley it had always been surprising: hours, days, months of rehearsals – and only minutes on stage. Minutes that feel like a blink. He was smiling widely now. He had not performed on stage for quite some time, and it felt just as great as before. “Thank you,” he said to the audience. He meant it now.

They were leaving the stage to rapturous applause, when he spotted an elderly couple rushing towards him.

“Excuse me,” the man shouted. “You’re Anthony, right? You used to sing for The Black Wings, didn’t you?” He was speaking more quietly now, when he was right near the stage. Still, it was loud enough for Aziraphale to hear him and to be looking curiously at Crowley. “Oh dear, you never told me you were singing…” the angel started.

Fuck.

“Darling, please stop,” the woman said to the man, looking very embarrassed. “I’ve told you, this boy is too young for that…” she looked at Crowley with _excuse-my-husband-please_ eyes.

“Valery, don’t you know how this business is? Plastic surgery and stuff, who are we to blame him?” He turned back to Crowley, who was desperately looking at Aziraphale now. “You were really great, both now and back then, such a pity you left the band…” Before Crowley had a chance to say at least something, the unrealistically garrulous man continued, “I just wanted to ask you to play one song, you see, it’s _our _song, I first kissed my wife when you were playing it, yes, so please, could you play ‘My Angel’ for us!”

There was a pause. The man looked extremely satisfied with himself.

Fuck.

Aziraphale, still on stage, was looking at him with his huge blue eyes wider than ever.

Fuck.

“Listen,” Crowley started, “I’m not…”

“Crowley, please…” he heard Aziraphale’s soft voice before he could finish.

Fuck it.

“You asked for it,” he sighed, looking Aziraphale in the eye.

He adjusted the microphone and started singing, picking the strings softly. It felt like the stage was burning under him, but he had to admit that it wasn’t and that he had no hope to escape.

_‘How many years has it been since I fell? I don't bother to count’_

He is pointedly not looking at Aziraphale. He is not going to look at him ever again.

_‘How many hours I've spent with you - and you only - on Earth’_

He has never realised he could physically feel that awkward. His fingers are shaking. Alea iacta est. He continues playing.

_‘I've been fallen for you all way long, and it tears me apart’_

People start hugging and dancing slowly. Some raise their lighters in the air. He doesn’t care.

_‘You're the best of my blessings, the most terrifying curse’_

The old man who has just ruined Crowley’s life is elated. He knows that the bridge is coming.

_‘I am yearning for you, and I think it could never be helped_

_Don't you shine at me, dear; I’m afraid I am going to melt’_

Valery and her horrible husband are singing along.

At this point, Crowley starts feeling some masochistic delight. He almost enjoys the absurdity of it all.

“…don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-DON’T-YOU-DARE-don’t-look-at-him…” he thinks just before he looks at the angel.

_‘I would fancy to call you “my angel”, but you'd fly away,_

_I'd say it into your lips, precious, that would be all I could say_

_I'd just stay with you on our side, I would, honey, a-ah_

_Make my therapist stop calling my crush on you mania-ah’_

Aziraphale’s face is illegible, or it is just Crowley, whose adrenaline levels are too high to let him think clearly. He breaks the eye-contact. The song lasts for some more time, until he finally breathes out the last line:

_‘But for now you'd rather stay away, _

_My angel’_

Crowley did not hear the applause this time. All he could think of was the soft touch of Aziraphale’s warm hand, urging him to leave the stage. Nobody was paying them any attention anymore – the excitement at Crowley’s song had quickly changed with welcoming cheering for some other musicians. Too quickly, so it must have taken the angel a miracle or two. Still, they were now moving away from the stage, towards the quiet of the wood.

“…don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel…” It works this time.

“Happy now?” he asked the moment they stopped. He had planned to sound angry or bitter, but it was closer to burnt out. He did not expect to hear Aziraphale’s soft and simple: “Yes.”

He finally looked at Aziraphale incredulously. The angel was radiant, and he was standing too close, and he was holding Crowley’s hand in his hands, and it all was so unbelievable and overwhelming that it took him some time to realize that the next moment Aziraphale was kissing him, sweetly and tenderly.

And everything was suddenly great. Amazing. Fantastic. Terrific. Magnificent. Sublime.

Everything was _right_.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you myself” Aziraphale was whispering to him gently, “I just didn’t know how to do it.” It turned out Aziraphale could speak very coherently between the tiny kisses he kept pressing against Crowley’s lips and hands. As for the demon’s part, he was having some difficulties following the angel’s train of thought.

“I love you, Aziraphale,” was all he managed to say. It was enough. Aziraphale smiled at him.

“I love you too, Crowley.”

***

The end of a good weekend is always a pity. The festival was over, and its guests were not looking forward to coming back to their daily routine in the city, whether it was work, or studies, or whatever it was the festival had given them a break from.

It was different for Aziraphale and Crowley. None of them was upset at coming back to London, because their life, while it was going to stay very similar to what it used to be, had definitely changed for the better. And they were finally going to enjoy it to the full.

“I wouldn’t, by the way,” says Aziraphale when they are in the Bentley on their way home.

“Hmm?” Crowley utters, noticing the twinkle in the angel’s eye.

“I wouldn’t stay away. You sang that I would. I wouldn’t.”

“Do shut up, angel,” laughs Crowley, unable to hide a huge grin. “Sure you wouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) Music festivals are great, aren't they?
> 
> Thank you for reading this fic, I hope it was fun :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading it :)
> 
> As you must have guessed, I'm not very good at music, so I kept googling everything - and this is how I found the mnemonics which is used in the title of this fic :)


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